The Amazon and the Warrior

by Judith Hand

  Behind him he heard chariots rushing up to the canyon, the men yelling, a horse screaming as apparently at least one chariot couldn’t halt in time and the horse and men went over the cliff.

  Arrows whizzed around him. He felt a burning sensation on his left shoulder as one sliced him, but did not stick. Then at last, one toe found a solid footing. He shoved himself to the level surface and leapt to his feet just as Pentha swept up on Valor.

  “Give me your arm,” she yelled.

  He swung up onto the stallion’s back behind her, and they charged off, racing to catch the others.

  72

  LOOKS OF SHOCK AND AMAZEMENT GREETED DAMON and the returning Amazons. He quickly realized that the rescue mission had been kept secret. Outside Pentha’s tent they dismounted, the horses’ grooms quickly coming to care for the animals. Clonie limped badly. Gryn said, “I’m going to care for that,” and bustled off toward her tent.

  Pentha hugged Damon, then pushed him back with a wide stare. “You’ve been wounded,” she said.

  He felt his left side. His tunic was slit open and soaked with blood. “I don’t think it’s serious. But it burns like fire.”

  “And your shoulder, too.”

  Phemios looked as though he’d slept in a horse pen, and the smile he gave Pentha was one of enormous relief.

  And then Damon thought his eyes deceived him. Bias ran up to him and threw himself into Damon’s arms. He hugged Damon fiercely.

  Tears searing the backs of his eyes, Damon squeezed back. Seeing that Bias’ shoulder was bandaged, Damon touched the bandage. “I thought you were dead.”

  The boy grinned. “It’s been a royally fearsome day.”

  Damon hugged Bias again, thinking of the mother whose heart he would not have to break.

  Gryn bustled up. “Here, let me see that.”

  But Pentha said, “Take care of Clonie, mother. And Bremusa has a head wound. I will care for Damon.” To Phemios she said, “Talk to Bremusa. You and I will talk later.” To Marpessa she said, “Have someone bring me what I need to clean and bind his wounds.”

  Damon patted Bias on his uninjured shoulder. “Tomorrow we’ll talk.”

  He followed Pentha into her tent.

  She stared at him, eyes glistening. Finally she said, her voice like a lover’s caress, “If you had died, I would have died.”

  He pulled her into his arms, with one hand felt the soft touch of her hair. “Death is all around us. War is death. But for now, for this moment, we live.”

  Two serving women arrived with water, ointments, and cloths. Pentha pulled herself from his arms.

  “Sit there,” she said, indicating a stool by a table. She forced sternness into her tone, as though working to keep control, either of herself or of the situation.

  The women left.

  Pentha helped him pull the tunic over his head. She said nothing, but briefly touched the arrowhead.

  As he had guessed, neither wound was deep. Her face—her beautiful face that he could not look away from had he wanted to—was set in a frown as she cleaned them.

  “Jumping that canyon was insane, Pentha.”

  “No. Bold. It was the only way we could succeed.”

  “I nearly went into the drop myself. I can barely ride. And I’ve never jumped.”

  “But you are incredibly strong and agile. I counted on that.”

  “I almost didn’t make it. The horse didn’t.”

  “He was our best jumper, a great horse. If he couldn’t bring you across, no horse could. Not even Valor. And, in spite of your lack of skill, he succeeded. His name was Wanderer, and many stories will be told to Amazon children about the day the great horse Wanderer saved Damonides.”

  She continued cleaning his side. He said, “The mess was not entirely for nothing. In fact, I learned some good news. Achilles is acting alone in his threats to Themiskyra. He’s kept the other royals in the dark. That simplifies things for us a bit.”

  She paused a moment. “Yes, it does.”

  He held up his arm while she smoothed on a comfrey ointment. When she finished, she shook her head. “I love you, Damon. And I am in terrible pain.”

  Joy swept through him. A warming flush rose to his face. Love. Pentha had never before said the word love.

  But then, she’d said loving him caused pain. “What am I supposed to say? That I’m happy you love me, and sorry it causes you pain.”

  “The pain comes from fear of losing you.”

  “Love. And losing. I think to love guarantees pain, because eventually, no matter how long we live, someone dies. Someone is left behind. I love you. And sometimes it pains me when I worry for you. But most of the time, loving you makes me deeply happy.”

  She wound linen expertly to hold the poultice in place. Then she knelt beside him and took one of his hands, opened the palm, and kissed it. For a moment he thought to take her in his arms, to hold her, to tell her everything would be all right, but death was an unseen presence in the very air they breathed, and the thought of holding her suddenly terrified him. Within days he might lose her. Somehow his mind seemed to think that to hold her now would only increase the pain of loss.

  With her gaze tightly fixed on his face, she said, “Maybe we could go now to that wonderful Ephesus. A place where no one would know me, and where men and women live together all the time. Ask me to leave this camp. Beg me to leave with you and go away.”

  Surprised, he pulled his hand from hers. “I don’t understand.”

  “Just say, ‘Let’s leave. Now.’”

  He stood. “I can’t do that.”

  She sat back on her heels, looking up at him, the strangest look in her eyes. Unreadable. He said, “And you don’t actually mean it.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Surprise shifted to shock, and when she didn’t indicate she was jesting, shock turned to anger. He felt his neck and face warming. He glared at her. “What do you want from me? We are less than two days from what may be the biggest battle of any man’s lifetime. Certainly of my life. A battle I’ve come to agree is crucial to defending Themiskyra. And you beg me to ask you to run away!”

  She stood, put her hand on his arm.

  He looked at it. She took it away.

  She said, “For years now, to get through each day, I created a person that was a strong, invincible warrior. And as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to kill Achilles. That would give me peace at last, I was certain. But the moment I thought I might lose you, I knew all that was pretense. If you were dead, killing Achilles would do nothing to make me happy.”

  “Now!” Blood pounded at his temples. He walked several steps away, then turned back. “You ask this now, when I have begged you before to leave. There was a time when we could have left. Honorably. But you wouldn’t have it. Now you say this to me!”

  A tear rolled down her cheek, followed by another. “I’m ashamed.” she said. “But I love you. I want to live with you—all the time. Life in Themiskyra works. It’s good. It’s peaceful. I am free. But loving you has made me hungry for more.” She bit her trembling lip. “I don’t want you to die.”

  “How can you stand there crying and asking me to do such a thing? And why Achilles? Tell me that! What is this obsession you have about him? I don’t understand you. Tell me!”

  She straightened her shoulders and brushed away the tears.

  She tightened a fist and struck it against her chest. “There are demons fighting in here!” She shook her head, her face a mask of conflict and pain. “Maybe being happy is not my fate.”

  He grabbed her by both arms. She was making no sense. “You’ve said that before. Why?” He shook her. “Why do you say that? It’s as if by saying it, you want to make it true. I tell you, you could be happy. But apparently you won’t let that happen.”

  She wrenched herself free. “You should go! Let me be.”

  “I won’t go away, Pentha. Ever.”

  In a long, silent, pause, she searched his face. Then
she said, “I don’t understand anything. Why have the Fates brought me to this place?” Her lips twisted into a bitter line. “Warrior Queen! I am a coward.”

  Once more amazed, he waved his hands in frustration. “What kind of insane thought is that? Your mind for battle is brilliant. And I’ve seen you fight and kill.”

  “Only when it really didn’t make a difference to me if I lived. But everything is changed. I want to live, and I don’t want to fight.”

  Not since Hippolyta’s death had Pentha looked so sad, so defeated.

  “When I was sixteen,” she said slowly, “the Acheans came to Tenedos. Achilles came to our house. I was the one who had time to hide. I hid, and I watched him kill my mother. I watched him rape Derinoe. And the thing is—I watched, and I—did—nothing.” She spit out the last words, a bitter self-indictment.

  All the pieces that were Pentha suddenly fit together. He walked to her, took her hands. “Is this why you think you don’t deserve to be happy? Pentha, you were sixteen. There was nothing you could have done.”

  “I could have tried.”

  He pulled her close, pressed her cheek to his chest. “You were sixteen, and not warrior trained. Surely you were terrified. Isn’t that true?”

  She pushed away from him again, turned her back to him and bent her head.

  He put his arms around her shoulders and clasped his hands across her arms. “I don’t know all of what you are. But I know you are not a coward. And I think you are finding out that you are a women who can love.”

  Pentha’s wound was every bit as deep as his own, just of a different kind. He touched her hair, ran a finger along her chin. “You are being truly honest, not a coward, when you say you don’t want to fight. That kind of honesty, recognizing and accepting who we are, not who others think we ought to be, may be the only way to find peace. It was for me.”

  “Sometimes fighting is necessary.”

  “Of course.”

  “I should have fought.”

  He went to the table and poured them both a cup of mare’s milk and handed one to her. “I’ve met the great Lord Achilles. You would simply have been killed.”

  She sipped, her eyes lost in reflection.

  Something she had said earlier suddenly conjured a thought. “Pentha. What about Leonides? Leonides—”

  “He is Achilles’ son.” She took another sip of the milk. “I talked with Deri. She hates Achilles. But this obsession I have for Achilles, as you call it, has become not something merely personal, about me and my mother and Deri. It’s about all of Themiskyra.”

  “You’re instincts have been right. Deadly right. And depending on how much information Trusis gave him, Achilles may succeed.”

  “Trusis! Trusis! Great goddess. I had forgotten Trusis. Why did you kill him?”

  “He arranged my capture, Pentha. Trusis betrayed us.”

  She sat her cup on the table and put a hand across her forehead. “He may have revealed everything. Our battle plans. Our defenses at home”

  “I think not. He said to me, ‘I will explain our plans to Achilles.’ Not that he had done so, but that he would do so. I don’t believe he’d yet had the opportunity.”

  Damon sat on the stool and continued. “The Fates picked you, Pentha. And they chose well. When I came down the mountain, I also accepted that the Fates picked me to help you. I have come to agree this fight is your duty. But I will beg you one thing. Promise me that under no circumstances will you fight Achilles in single combat.”

  She sipped from the cup.

  Something frightening twisted his gut. “I mean it, Pentha. He may call for single combat. He would love to be able to brag that he killed the Amazon Queen. But he cannot command that you fight him and there is no dishonor in turning him down. Ignore him. You’ll be no good to us dead.”

  Still she simply sipped.

  Fear became an urgent goad. “He is huge, Pentha.” Damon felt Achilles’ fist slamming into his stomach. “You cannot beat him in single combat, as satisfying as you think that might be.”

  “I would be faster.”

  “Penthesilea, may I enter?” The voice was that of one of the serving women.

  Pentha replied, “Enter.”

  The woman went into Pentha’s bedchamber, and he saw the lights from lamps brought to life. She returned to the table and gathered up the salves, dirty water, and bandages. Damon stood and moved away from the table. The woman turned to Pentha. “Do you require anything else, Lady? Shall I prepare a bath?”

  “No, Anna. In the morning. I am too tired now even to bathe.”

  The woman left and Pentha stood. “You must be tired too.”

  “I don’t want to leave. I know we can’t make love. What we both need is iron will, not softness. But I want to sleep beside you.”

  She smiled, touched his lips with a fingertip, and took his hand. She led him into the adjacent chamber, also comfortable and welcoming with furs on the floor and walls. They undressed, extinguished all the lamps but the one by the door, and slipped under the covers. She wriggled close to him, her hand outside the fur cover. He clasped it tightly in his.

  He said, “Promise me you will deny any challenge by Achilles. Or for that matter, any of the royals.”

  “What will be, will be. Let’s not talk of battle. Let’s not talk at all. I’m truly exhausted.”

  He stroked her palm. Here was a woman who could wield a sword with powerful blows, but her hand seemed small, her fingers delicate. He felt himself drifting off. “With you, my heart is always at rest. You are my peace.”

  Beneath her fingers, Pentha felt Damon’s pulse beating in his palm. Apparently just being with her made Damon profoundly happy. She could imagine no greater pleasure than to marry Damon, have his children, and live the moments and days and years of her life with him.

  They lay quietly a while, and then she spoke softly. “I envy you. That you are happy with who you are. You would excuse me for not fighting for Deri, but I should have fought, no matter what.”

  Pentha had another thought. “In a few days, when this is all over, I have something to tell you that has made me deeply happy. I think it will make you happy, too.”

  She waited, expecting him to say, “What?” and try to pry the secret out of her. And maybe she should tell him.

  She rose on her elbow, studied his face, and found that he had fallen asleep. Still she whispered to him. “Deri says I’m free to choose. I choose you.”

  73

  PENTHA AWOKE WHILE NIGHT STILL CLOAKED THE encampment to find that Damon had already left her bed. She felt under the cover, hoping to be able to touch a trace of his warmth, but none lingered. She sat up and dropped her feet to the floor and bowed her head.

  Life was hard. Even brutal. And she must do today the most difficult thing she could imagine. Not killing Achilles, which she had longed to do for years. But offering him the challenge to duel. Because a chance, a very real chance, existed that the Achean would kill her, and, brutal irony, she now very much wanted to live.

  THE EASTERN SKY SHOWED a faint, blue-gray rim of dawn light. Only a short time now until the battle must begin.

  Pentha turned from talking to Bremusa as a young Amazon rode toward her with Deri. Looking perplexed and still in her sleeping gown, Deri sat on the horse in front of the woman Pentha had sent to fetch her.

  Pentha put her arm on Deri’s leg. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you so early.”

  “I wasn’t asleep.”

  Pentha nodded to the woman, who slipped off the horse and walked far enough away to give Pentha and Deri privacy. “I sent for you because it’s possible I may not kill Achilles today. I’m worried, and not only for Themiskyra. For Damon. I don’t want him to risk his life, perhaps lose it, for any reason. And certainly not to avenge me.”

  “Pentha. Please. I don’t know—”

  “Achilles must be killed. So if things do not go well, there is something important you must do. Something I couldn’t do, but you
can. For Themiskyra, and to protect Damon.”

  74

  AN UNNATURAL PEACE LAY OVER THE PLAIN OF Troy. At one hour past dawn, a morning fog hung silently in the air, blotting out the sky but not the ground. Damon gazed across what would be, in less than an hour, a field of dead and dying warriors.

  He strode to the chariot he had requested from Aeneas. To the driver he said, “No matter what happens, stay close by.”

  “I’m ready, my lord.”

  “And keep a sharp eye for Achilles’ pennant. As soon as the initial skirmish passes, you must take me to him. No one else should reach him before me.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Damon returned to where Phemios waited, and once more studied the field. As he contemplated the gloomy calm, the churning in his stomach eased. Surely the lack of wind was an omen that the gods were with Pentha. Today, on this day of battle, the notorious northern wind had failed to join the gathered warriors, and gusts blowing against the arrows of the Themiskyran Amazon horsewomen would have been a serious handicap. They were already at severe disadvantage for he estimated that the Achean enemy outnumbered Themiskyrans and Trojans two to one.

  Damon reached down the neck of his tunic and pulled out the arrowhead. He closed his eyes, envisioned Pentha’s face—and the churning sensation struck again with force. He snapped his eyes open.

  “There is enough light, Damon.”

  Phemios’ voice startled him. He let the arrowhead fall against his armor.

  Phemios continued. “I can finally make out their battle pennants. They appear ready to engage. All pennants appear to be up.”

  Behind Damon, forces four-thousand-strong waited at his command. Trojan troops, including all the chariots the Trojans could put into the field, covered his left and right. Although the raising of pennants did usually signal readiness to engage, Agamemnon’s forces showed no signs of moving,

  Phemios stirred again. Dressed in muscled cuirass, helmet, and greaves, he swept his hand forward to point as he talked. “Agamemnon and Achilles have taken the center, as we thought. They’ve put Nestor and Odysseus in charge of the left. Menelaus and Ajax to the right.” He dragged his arm. “But I don’t see Diomedes’ pennant.”